


Bigmouth Strikes Again

by trinityofone



Category: In the Flesh (TV)
Genre: Kneeling, M/M, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 03:02:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2008455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinityofone/pseuds/trinityofone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simon confesses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bigmouth Strikes Again

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to fiveyearmission for looking this over!

After Amy’s wake, Kieren walks Simon back to the bungalow. Simon feels his suitcase thumping against his thigh without really _feeling_ it: the weight of it is there at least. Kieren’s mostly quiet, but Simon doesn’t mind being quiet with him. He watches his face as discreetly as he can and imagines the way his heart would once have thundered in his chest. Instead there is silence, and it’s good.

When they reach Amy’s house—though it’s _Simon’s_ now, he remembers, it strikes him anew: she left it to him, or more precisely, left it to her _previously intended (and all his followers)_. Simon can’t think about that, so he’s grateful when Kieren follows him inside. It’s fairly obvious that neither of them wants to be alone—although Kieren promised his family that he wouldn’t be long. Even now they are waiting for him. 

The house is empty. Zoe, Brian, all of them—they’ve been avoiding Simon. Simon knows he should do the right thing, the righteous thing, and leave town, but— He sets his suitcase down.

Turning to face Kieren, he is surprised to find him picking up the bag from where Simon just deposited it and squeezing past him down the hall.

“You shouldn’t leave it in the corridor,” Kieren says, shooting a small smile over his shoulder. He’s heading in the direction of Simon’s bedroom. Simon is perfectly happy to follow him there.

But Kieren draws up short in the doorway. The bag sags in his hand. In a small, frightened voice, he says Simon’s name.

Simon can see it now, over Kieren’s shoulder. A splash of red spray paint, mapped out with a steady, confident hand across the wall above his bed: MATTHEW 27:5.

“What—“ Kieren starts, turning to look at him, because of course Simon would know it. And he does.

“’Then Judas, which had betrayed him,’” Simon says, choosing to begin his recitation a few verses back because it’s his job to provide _context_ , “’when he saw that he was condemned, repented himself, and brought again the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and elders, Saying, I have sinned in that I have betrayed the innocent blood.” Simon tries not to let his voice crack. “’And they said, What _is that_ to us? See thou _to that_.’”

He can tell that Kieren is watching him with a growing look of horror, though Simon can’t bring himself to look at his face.

He finishes in a rush: “’And he cast down the pieces of silver in the temple, and departed, and went and hanged himself.’”

“ _What_?” says Kieren. “Are they _threatening_ you?”

“They’re…recommending a course of action,” Simon says, surprised at how dry he can make it sound. How unbothered he can seem. Kieren is shaking. Simon wants to go to him, take him in his arms, but at the same time the idea suddenly revolts him. Because he _is_ a Judas, even if not in the way his former followers think. Here in this very room, where he received his benediction, he kissed the First—kissed this beautiful boy—before betraying him to his masters.

So instead of comforting Kieren, Simon merely relives him of his burden. He takes the bag from his hand, walks with a steady gait to set it atop the dresser. He unzips it forcefully, then jerks open a drawer and starts emptying the former into the latter. He is not taking care. He keeps his back toward the door.

“Simon,” says Kieren. He’s too close. Simon can feel him, hovering at his back. He freezes like a frightened animal. “What else was happening at the cemetery that day? I know I was a bit preoccupied at the time—“ Simon can picture the twist of his lip, this attempt to downplay what happened with humor. “—But I remember. What were your followers doing?”

“They’re the Prophet’s followers, not mine,” Simon says into the half-filled drawer. The words seem to echo off the wood.

“But you’re his disciple.”

He slams the drawer shut. “Not anymore.”

“Simon.” Kieren catches his elbow as he tries to turn away again. “You have to tell me what happened. You have to tell me what’s happening so I can _do_ something, Simon! I’m always too late and I can’t—“

His voice breaks. Simon feels like something inside of him is breaking, too. He manages some version of a nod before leading Kieren—or letting Kieren lead him—over to the bed. He gets Kieren seated on the end of it and then—

Simon crumples. He feels his legs fold up, his knees hit the carpet. It’s a relief, really. He bows his head, panting, pulling in air he doesn’t need. His hands twitch atop Kieren’s knees, clutching at him with blackened nails. 

Kieren has yelped his name; he sounds alarmed. Simon forces himself to look up, finally, to meet his gaze. With effort he steadies his tongue. “I have sinned in that I have betrayed the innocent blood.”

Kieren—beautiful, incredible Kieren—is of course unaware of his own magnitude. He sounds exasperated. “What are you talking about?”

“I nearly killed you.” The words scrape out. “The Prophet gave me a mission. I had to destroy the First Risen. _You_ , Kieren.”

He casts his eyes up again. Kieren’s shaking his head. “You saved my life. You took a bullet for me.”

“I had a knife in my hand.” He looks down at his fingers: like dried husks now atop the dark fabric of Kieren’s trousers. “I didn’t know what I was going to do until I did it. I pictured it—the other way—over and over again. I betrayed you in my heart—“

This is clearly too esoteric for Kieren. “But the betrayal _they’re_ talking about.” He tilts his head toward the reddened wall behind them. “It’s that you _didn’t_ do it. You disobeyed.”

“Yes,” says Simon, with a great sigh. “I can’t follow the Prophet any longer. I want—“ His shoulders sink down. His head drops into Kieren’s lap.

“Stop it,” Kieren says. He’s tugging at Simon’s hair, but his fingers are gentle. “Simon, stop it. I’m not— It can’t be like this between us.”

Simon feels something inside him shut down. If he was cold before, now he is ice. And still he cannot bring himself to get up off his knees.

“No,” Kieren interjects hastily, his hand catching against the back of Simon’s neck. Simon can almost feel it, like the memory of a touch. “I didn’t mean it like that. I meant…” He swallows. “I want you to be my…boyfriend,” he says with a slight stutter. “Not my _disciple_ , Jesus. See!” he adds excitedly. “It’s blasphemy left and right with me. I’m not cut out for it, this messiah business. I told you.”

But of course he would think that. Of course he would be humble and not recognize his own worth. Simon clutches at his wrist.

“But…you forgive me,” he says. “I have your forgiveness.”

Kieren lets out a small sigh. He’s giving Simon a look, this slightly baffled look. Yet he never stops looking.

“You have my forgiveness, Simon Monroe,” he says. His voice starts out light, almost teasing, but by the time he’s saying Simon’s name, something’s shifted. “We can’t keep secrets, though,” he says, expression suddenly earnest. “We have to tell each other what’s happening. We can’t just run off and—“

“I won’t. I promise.” Better to make it formal like this, what he’s already decided. He knows who he’s reporting to now.

Kieren squares his shoulders. “All right. So tell me honestly: are they going to come after you?”

“Yes.” When they see that Simon’s not going to take the proffered noose: yes, yes, then he thinks they will.

Kieren’s eyes are wide. “After me?” he asks after a moment.

“Well,” says Simon with a twitch of his lip, “I never actually told them your name.”

Kieren lets out a little startled huff of a laugh. Simon could easily stay like this, staring up at him, for hours.

“Only that you were beautiful,” he adds, just to watch the expressions move across his face.

“Oh, well, I should definitely be safe then. You’re the only one mad enough to think that.”

“I’m not mad,” Simon says. “Just the first.”

Kieren’s hand tightens on the back of his neck. Simon tilts up his chin. He shouldn’t be able to feel anything when Kieren kisses him; it should be a pointless act, a painful mimic of the living. But from the moment Kieren stepped across the threshold of this house and pressed his lips to Simon’s—well, Simon should have known right then that he was lost. He was found. He feels more alive, dead and kissing Kieren, then he ever did when he was living. He feels a greater sense of purpose than he ever felt at the Prophet’s feet.

Just let them try to take it from him.

“We should go,” Kieren says after a minute, coming up for air he doesn’t need.

“We?”

“You can’t stay here by yourself. It’s not safe.” He tugs at Simon’s hand. “Come home with me.”

“To your _parents’_ house.” Still he lets Kieren pull him upright.

Kieren shrugs. “They like you. I’ll explain it to them.”

“Simple as that?” Simon says.

“Simple as that,” Kieren repeats, slim shoulders hunched, a layer of false confidence drawn around him like a cloak.

But Simon believes.

**Author's Note:**

> I want to write a bunch of Simon stories just so I can name them after Smiths songs. So that may be a thing that happens.


End file.
